


The Posh Boy In The Dress

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, First Kiss, Greg and Mycroft are 18, Greg as The Stage Manager, Greg's Mum is lovely, Hideous dresses, M/M, Mycroft as Lady Bracknell, Teen Mystrade, button hooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 19:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13418253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: When Mycroft is cast as Lady Bracknell in the school play, he despairs. Now the object of his crush, football captain Greg Lestrade, will never see him as anything other than the posh boy in the dress. Or will he?





	The Posh Boy In The Dress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmImagines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmImagines/gifts), [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts).



THE POSH BOY IN THE DRESS

Boarding School AU. Mycroft Holmes loves the Drama Club but when he's picked to play Lady Bracknell in the end of year play, he despairs. Now the subject of his secret adoration will never see him as anything other than a posh boy in a velvet dress. Or will he?

Written especially for the two Emma's with much love, Emma One for the idea and Emma Two just because…

The Drama Club convened in the school auditorium. As they waited for their teacher to appear, the boys chatted and generally arsed around as young men are prone to do unsupervised. There was a good mix of day boys and boarders and, at the back sat Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had always kept himself slightly apart, others considered him to be a bit aloof, not guessing for one.minute that he sat where he did so he could gaze longingly at the captain of the school football team.

He had known Greg Lestrade since they were eleven years old. Popular, handsome and kind, Greg treated everyone, including Mycroft, with general friendliness, not knowing that he had a starring role in many of Mycroft's fantasies. 

As the teacher entered the room, Greg caught Mycroft looking at him and, to Mycroft's amazement, winked.

“We're doing “The Importance Of Being Earnest “ this year, gentlemen.” announced Miss Jones to a collective groan from all of them.

“I think you'd be perfect for Lady Bracknell, Mr Holmes, “ she stated.” I think you're the only student with enough gravitas to pull it off.”

Mycroft wanted to protest but he was secretly thrilled to be picked.

“I'll do it, Miss.” he conceded.

“Excellent. Mr Lestrade?”

Greg perked up, his engaging smile lightning up his features as he ran a hand through his thick dark hair.

“Are you willing to run the backstage again?”

“More than happy, Miss “ he replied.

Mycroft wanted to protest. Greg Lestrade was handsome enough to be the.leading man in any production you would care to name, yet he was happiest behind the scenes.

“Very good. The rest of you will be cast tomorrow when we start rehearsals. Right, off you go. “

Mycroft was thoughtful as he made his way back to his study, one he didn't need to share, one of the perks of being a prefect and in the Upper Sixth form. Lady Bracknell. Still, it could have been worse. He sat at his desk, took down the textbook on advanced physics he had been reading earlier and started to make notes.

Rehearsals went fairly well for the few weeks leading up to the end of term, Mycroft being his imperious best,always aware of Greg in the background, busier than a one-armed paper hanger with set dressing and lighting, until the discussion about costume arose.

“Why can't it be in modern dress?” asked one boy.

“Don't be ridiculous,” answered Miss Jones crisply. “It will be in period costume because it is a period piece.”

She droned on about Victorian values and Mycroft realised, having not given it much thought, that he would have to wear a dress. And not just any dress one suitable for a Victorian dowager.

Greg Lestrade would piss himself laughing.

“Actually, Miss,” chimed in the man himself. “My mum might be able to help us out. Her museum is having a re-fit and they're mothballing a lot of their old stuff. I'll ask her if we might be able to borrow some of it.”

“That would be enormously helpful, Mr Lestrade. Thank you.”

At rehearsals next day, Greg looked triumphant as he bounced onto the stage. 

“Mum's come up trumps,” he announced. “There's one snag,Miss. I need to borrow Mycroft for an hour or two. Mum thinks the costume for Lady Bracknell might need altering and she needs to measure him properly.”

Oblivious to the sniggers of the others, Mycroft found himself walking down the gravel path to the school gates with the subject of his unrequited crush. He was completely tongue tied, unable of thinking of a single thing to say. Luckily, Greg had no such qualms.

“So,” ventures Greg. “How do you think you did in your exams?”

“I think I've passed, “ said Mycroft squeaking, then cleared his throat. He could feel himself starting to blush and despaired.

“Have you thought about what you'll do after school?” he enquired.

“Well, since the Arsenal scouts have been missing from all my games, I suppose I'll have to follow through on my Hendon application.” replied Greg airily.  “It's all I ever wanted to do, ever since I was tiny. What about you, Mycroft? Will you go to university,”

“I've been accepted for Cambridge, yes. After that, who knows?”

Greg chuckled, a delightful sound that Mycroft was pretty sure he'd never tire of hearing.

“Something where you have to wear a suit and a power tie all day, I bet. Hah, in a few years you'll probably be running the country.”

“Whereas you'll be Chief Constable, no doubt?” teased Mycroft, thrilled with the lighthearted banter.

“No doubt at all,” said Greg smugly, smiling at Mycroft  in a way that made his heart feel like it was trying to slam it's way out of his chest.

“I dunno about your little brother though. He seems like a handful.”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile.

“He means well. He's just easily bored. And when he is, it usually means trouble for someone. My parents are probably enjoying their first peace and quiet in eleven years, with no one trying to blow the house up with science experiments. Do you have any siblings, Greg?”

“A big sister. She lives in London. Got married last year. I was the horrible little brother, always poking his nose in and embarrassing her in front of her boyfriends. I don't envy you with Sherlock, he'll have your first girlfriend deduced and mortified within no time.”

Mycroft decided to be brave.

“I don't think girlfriends will be a problem.” He sneaked a sideways look at Greg who looked neither shocked nor disgusted.

“Oh, right.” was all he said.

Their chat had brought them through the village, past the pub and to a cottage beside the post office.

“Come in,” said Greg, then raised his voice once they were through the front door. “Mum, we're here!”

Mrs Lestrade wasn't quite what Mycroft had expected but it was plainly obvious where Greg got his good looks from, she had the same chocolate brown eyes and dark hair. Before he could say a word, Mrs Lestrade smiled.

So this is Mycroft! Lovely to meet you, dear. Greg's mentioned you a few times.”

From the corner of his eye Mycroft could see Greg looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

“Has he?” was all he could think if to say. 

“Yes, he's got a serious case of mention-itis. Greg, go and put the kettle on. Come in, dear and I'll take your measurements. “

He followed her into a room filled with comfortable furniture, an array of football trophies were arranged on the mantelpiece under the latest of Greg's school photographs and a wedding picture, presumably Greg's sister. Mycroft felt immediately at ease and sank into one of the armchairs at Mrs Lestrade's insistence. Greg slouched in with three mugs of tea and handed one to Mycroft.

“Milk, no sugar. Right?”

“Yes, that's right. Thanks, Greg “ 

He sipped his tea and found it was excellent.

“I’ll just go and get my tape measure,” said Mrs Lestrade and vanished into another room.

“She’s nice, your mother.” ventured Mycroft, thinking of the chilling scrutiny Greg would have been subjected to had the situation been reversed. Greg smiled and Mycroft knew it had been the right thing to say. He drank some more of his tea.

“She’s all right. Y’know, for a mum.”

“Huh, you should meet mine.” muttered Mycroft and clapped a hand over his mouth in horror as Greg grinned knowingly at him. Mycroft was saved from embarrassing himself further by Mrs Lestrade's return. She was carrying a blue dress, a purple dress, a sewing box and had a look of steely determination.

“Right then. Stand up, Mycroft and take your jacket off.”

He did as he was told as she went to work with her tape measure.

“Hmm. Looks like it’ll have to be the purple one. You’re deceptively broad across the chest. And those long legs of yours, I’ll have to let the hem down as far as it will go. Here.” she said, handing Mycroft the purple gown. “Slip this on and I’ll adjust it.”

The material was stiff and heavy and smelled of mothballs. Mycroft stood like a statue as she tucked and pinned until she was satisfied.

“Sorry about all the buttons, but that’ll have to do. I’ll have it ready for the dress rehearsal.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” said Mycroft as he fought his way out of the garment, smoothed down his ruffled hair and put his jacket back on.

“It’s nothing, dear. I’m looking forward to opening night.”

“I’ll have to get back, it’s almost time for curfew.” His tone was regretful. He’d rather stay here with Mrs Lestrade and her open warmth and Greg, with whom he had made a connection far beyond daydreaming about him in French class, than return to his lonely study and his books.

“See you tomorrow,” said Greg cheerfully. “Double Chemistry.”

“Don’t remind me,” groaned Mycroft.

The day of the dress rehearsal duly came round. Mrs Lestrade had been as good as her word and there, hanging in the wardrobe area behind the stage, was the hideous purple dress.

Mycroft eyed it dubiously as he undressed to his boxers and pulled it on. Then he realised his error.

“Christ, I can't fasten it!”

Well aware of his dignity, he looked around in despair.

“Need a hand?” said a familiar voice.

“Oh, thanks, Greg. There’s far too many fiddly buttons on this thing.”

Greg grinned, brandishing what looked like a demented toothpick.

“It’s a button hook,” he explained. “Mum thought you might need a hand getting into it. Just turn round and hold still.”

Mycroft turned and hewad a sharp inhalation of breath.

“Who’d have guessed you’d have so many freckles?” Greg asked wonderingly.

Mycroft felt the dress fitting around him as Greg’s nimble fingers did their work.

“There. All done,” Greg’s voice sounded strange. Mycroft turned, Greg was still very close with the ridiculous button hook in his hand, his arms folded across his chest, studiously avoiding eye contact with Mycroft.

“Thanks, Greg.”

Greg stepped back as if Mycroft had suddenly become toxic.

“No problem. Break a leg, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft was in despair. He thought there had been a connection with Greg but now that he’d seen Mycroft like that all he’d ever think of him, if he ever thought of him, was as the posh boy in the ridiculous dress.

“Sod it,” said Mycroft, savagely pulling the wig, with attached horrendous hat onto his head and moving into the wings to await his cue.

The rehearsal went brilliantly but all Mycroft could think of wasa getting out of that bloody dress and slinking back to his study to mourn another shattered dream.

Miss Jones was fulsome in her praise so, slightly buoyed by that, Mycroft returned to the dressing area and sat in front of the mirror, pulling off the ridiculous wig. Miss Jones materialised beside him as he was rubbing the sweat from his face.

“I’ll help you out of that dress, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you. It’s unbelievably fiddly.”

“Why do you imagine the Victorian ladies all had maids?” she laughed.

Wondering what had happened to Greg, Mycroft went to bed.

Opening night and Mycroft was incredibly nervous, pacing the floor, putting off till the last minute the time when he had to put the sodding dress back on and become Lady Bracknell.

“Not dressed yet, Mycroft?”

And there was Greg, heart-stoppingly handsome in jeans and a bottle-green polo shirt.

“Not without dislocating both my shoulders to fasten the damned thing,” replied Mycroft ungraciously, knowing he looked less than pristine in his old dressing gown.

“C’mon, I’ll help you.” offered Greg.

It was like a repeat performance of the night before except...except…

Mycroft felt Greg’s warm hand on his naked shoulder as the hated dress was three-quarter buttoned.

On any other night this would have reduced Mycroft toa quivering heap, but tonight there was something different, the atmosphere seemed suddenly charged.

“Mycroft…”

Mycroft looked up. He could see Greg’s face in the mirror and his expression was very easily readable.

Oh... _ OH _

Mycroft turned to face him.

“So you do like me, then?” he asked.

“I like you.” replied Greg softly. “ I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you for the longest time, but I wasn’t sure...I nearly made a complete prat of myself last night. I mean, red hair and freckles, I’m only human, but then I thought maybe you might like me too.”

Mycroft was blushing again but this time he didn’t mind one bit.

“You’re gorgeous,” he admitted as he finally took Greg’s hands in his.”In my wildest dreams I never thought you’d fancy me though.”

Greg smiled at that, his dark eyes approving.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” confessed Greg.

“Yes, please.” urged Mycroft.

Greg leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, his arms slipping round him, holding him close as Mycroft melted into his first proper kiss. He appreciated the irony of the fact that he was wearing a dress as Greg’s tongue lazily explored the inside of Mycroft’s mouth.

“That’ll have to do for now, “ whispered Greg as their lips parted. “You're due on stage in about a minute.”

“Shit! Help me, Greg. Please!”

In a frantic flurry of buttoning and wig placement, interspersed with sweet, pecking kisses, Mycroft was finally ready in the wings.

There was never a happier or more loquacious Lady Bracknell, but then no other Lady Bracknell had Greg Lestrade backstage cheering them on and waiting for the last curtain call, so that he could kiss him again.

The End.


End file.
